


—but that violence, having passed through the fruit, failed to spoil it.

by incalyscent



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Descriptions of Injury, Hurt/Comfort, Lowercase, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Relationship, descriptions of medical procedures, intricate assassin rituals, it's about the hands fellas, local poet writes prose, no beta we die like men, quarantine slapped me right back to my first real fandom so let's go, this fic has been written about six million times and i dont care, wassup. it's been ten years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:42:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24481450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incalyscent/pseuds/incalyscent
Summary: “here, look -” malik reaches his hand up towards the cloudless sky, and the angle of altair’s face follows effortlessly- “that constellation is aquila, yes?”“you were always better at this sort of thing than i,” altair says, bemused.  malik snorts.“well, at it's point, that’s altair.”altair goes quiet, looking up with particular curiosity.  malik smiles at him, then looks back up.“on either side, that’s alshain, and tarazed, and their names together mean -”“the balance,” altair says quietly.  for the first time in a very long time, malik wants to take down that cowl and see what’s splayed true in those eyes.“yes,” malik says, “and you will bring balance, altair.  it is quite literally written in the stars.”
Relationships: Malik Al-Sayf/Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad
Comments: 18
Kudos: 100





	—but that violence, having passed through the fruit, failed to spoil it.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AKL](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AKL/gifts).



> all this time i told myself we were born from war—but i was wrong, ma. we were born from beauty.  
> let no one mistake us for the fruit of violence—but that violence, having passed through the fruit, failed to spoil it.
> 
> \- ocean vuong, _on earth we're briefly gorgeous._

it’s far too late to be hearing the telltale scuff of boots in the bureau.

malik is working by candlelight, hunched over rolls of parchment, because he doesn’t sleep much these days, anyways. years of training are the only thing that allows him to hear another body entering the bureau; even uncharacteristically heavy, the soft leather of the boots pad the fall so it’s almost silent.

“who’s there?” he calls. he knows; only one is as quiet as this.

there’s the sound of the grate being moved over the rooftop entrance, slowly, lethargically, before a voice calls out to him; “safety and peace, brother.”

altair’s voice is tight, and even as malik steps around his desk towards the doorway, any irritation bubbling to the surface is eaten away by worry.

“and what, pray tell me, brings you into my bureau at such an hour?”

malik finds altair leaned against the wall, blood leaking from the gap in his fingers where he had been struck in the side. he looks pale, and malik feels a cold wash of dread seep to his bones. in the shadow of his cowl, altair’s eyes flash simmering gold, the same kind that malik remembers seeing out on the desert when it was too hot and had been too long since he’d last seen water.

“there is no danger here. you are safe.”

altair’s eyes squeeze shut, and malik isn’t sure if it’s against pain or something else, but when they open again they are their regular amber. his mouth pulls, that particular way that says it wants to do something else, like smile or speak or grimace, but he refuses to let it.

as gently as he dares, malik crouches next to one of altair’s knees, dipping his head to peer at the wound. he makes no move to move his hands towards it yet; there is tension in altair’s body that he would not have noticed if he didn’t know him so intimately.

a drop of blood rolls from his fingers onto the floor.

“you are an idiot,” malik says, as if it’s common knowledge, and straightens. altair scoffs, and malik commends him for the dedication. “but lucky for you, i am not. hold pressure, i’ll be back.”

altair nods, and malik hurries back to his desk to pull out what medical supplies he has. assassin’s do not regularly get hurt and come back to his bureau. they usually just die. still, he finds a thread and needle, bandages of coarse linen. the skin of vinegar, not meant for food but for healing.

altair is gritting his teeth, jaw flexing as he grinds his teeth. he doesn’t like to show pain - or much of anything, if malik is being fair - so his eyes are steely forward, even if his fingers are tight and shaking where they are clamped over his wound. he had slid to the floor in malik’s absence, close to the running fountain but having enough decency not to bleed on the rug.

malik folds to the ground next to him, dragging the wash basin closer to them.

“you’re going to need to take all that off,” he says, setting up his supplies. he looks up in time to see blood slick fingers stumble with a buckle, devoid of the sharp dexterity he’s come to know so well.

“nevermind. i’ll do it.”

the look in altair’s eyes spells out he might lean away from the contact, and malik would let him, but something changes in those eyes; some sort of wall is taken down, even if just a single brick. with the deliberateness he leaps between buildings, altair puts his forearm in malik’s hand, hidden blade up and glinting crimson, and malik’s fingers close around the leather. malik is no fool, knows well the significance of such a gesture; to remove the blade was to change someone from assassin to just a man. he is careful in doing so; each thread of leather cuts a little bit of altair out and lays it bare, until the bracer comes off and dangles from mailk’s fingers. he holds the eagle of masyaf in his hand; before him is altair, son of none, whom he had known his whole life, listened to him cry in the dark as a child. it was hard, sometimes, to remember him like that. this is not one of those times. 

he puts the blade down with a reverence fit of it, and when his gaze comes back up, there is something unguarded in altair’s eyes. something he’s not used to. he drops his eyes again.

things come off slowly; malik gets the other gauntlet off, and working together, altair’s belt thumps unceremoniously to the sandstone floor. next, the scabbard for the blade on his back, clasped across his chest. when malik struggles, altair’s hand comes up, worn palm over the back of malik’s hand, and together they work the clasp free.

next the cowl, revealing paled face and hair in need of a crop. then the robes, stained bloody. malik takes a pair of scissors to cut away altair’s undershirt. his face pulls in pain when malik unsticks the shirt from the blood drying there, and malik shushes him instinctually, ingrained from years of raising a brother. his face goes hot with it almost instantly, but altair doesn’t say a word.

malik scrapes his eyes over altair’s body, and they stick on the cut on his side. it’s not so deep as to see bone, worse where it starts than where it ends. altair is talented in his craft; he knows how to dance around a blow, how to keep one from killing him if it does hit.

it will scar. it will join the rest of them to map out the complexities of his life. he’ll barely remember how he got it.

“you look like shit.”

“i got _stabbed_.”

he looks so much younger without his cowl. untamed hair, a lineless, soft face - altair does not have the face of a killer. that is something he learned, not something he was born into.

“maybe so,” malik says. he pours vinegar onto a strip of linen, and altair eyes it like a feral dog. there’s an ache that malik wouldn’t have felt mere months ago at the thought of hurting him. those months ago, altair wouldn’t have let him. now, he moves his hand from where he was putting pressure on the wound, even if he turns his head so malik has to look up at the sharp line of his profile instead of his ever watchful eyes.

the first touch of linen to his skin makes altair hiss through his teeth, eyes pinching. he doesn’t move much, save for a shiver of his skin over his ribs, but the fingers on his left hand flex and splay, no doubt an automatic reaction he’s not even aware of.

malik is surprised at his own gentleness, and by the way altair relaxes, he is too. 

“you need to be more careful,” malik says. he’s not surprised his voice comes out more worried than chastising, but there is a thick fog of trust in the air that makes it bearable.

“worried for me?”

altair’s voice is flat and strained, simultaneously trying to ignore the pain and failing miserably at doing so.

“we cannot afford to lose another grandmaster so soon,” malik says, trying to spin the conversation away from his heart. altair lets him, but malik ends up sighing, pausing his motions, rag pressed unmoving against altair’s ribs. “yes. i worry for you.”

altair blinks, brows drawing close. he doesn’t say anything. malik drops the cloth, picks up the needle, stares at the thread, and not for the first time nearly growls in frustration. he redirects it by dousing everything in a liberal amount of vinegar.

“you’re going to have to help me.”

altair’s wound is freshly cleaned and pink, beading up new blood, and it pulls when he tries to twist. malik puts the needle on altair’s thigh, scoots closer still, dragging everything he needs along with him.

“hold this,” malik says, taking altair’s hand and curling it around the needle without a second thought. even with altair’s hands unsteady, malik manages to thread the needle.

“this would be much _easier_ if i had two hands,” he says. altair cringes, but malik’s tone was light enough that he doesn’t suspect he takes it seriously.

“i did apologize for that.” altair’s voice is thin. malik snorts the start of a laugh.

“and i forgave you,” malik says idly, tilting his head to try and figure out a plan of attack. eventually, malik ends up with altair’s arm draped gingerly over his shoulders, and he is keenly aware of its weight, despite how he tries to ignore it. malik huffs again, bereft of a way to hold the wound closed to suture.

“you’ll have to hold it closed.” malik raises his eyebrows, watches as altair’s free hand comes up to hold his flesh together. he looks like he wants to squirm away from the pressure, but he doesn’t, content as he is to put aside anything he needs to to perform the task at hand. “easy,” malik does say, because altair is not gentle with himself. he tends not to be.

“ready?” malik waits for a nod before he puts needle to skin. at the first puncture, altair’s eyes squeeze shut, even as his head turns away, and his fingers clench in the empty sleeve of malik’s robe. the feeling twists uncomfortably in malik’s stomach; he is unused to seeing such an emotion in altair’s face. he assumes he usually finds somewhere private to lick his wounds. the fact that he doesn’t this time - there’s an old feeling malik thought he turned to dust biting at his insides.

malik figures out how to maneuver the thread to tie it in knots with only his one hand, and sometimes his teeth. each bite of the needle makes altair’s jaw flex, and by the third stitch he’s breathing through his teeth. he starts to sweat somewhere around the seventh, and malik pauses when he catches the sight of the muscle in altair’s belly flinching at his every touch, begging to squirm away while still having the willpower not to.

“do you need a break?” 

altair shakes his head, though the tendons on his neck are taught. “no, keep going.”

it takes sixteen stitches to put altair back together, and by the end of it he’s shaking like a leaf but pretending he’s not. halfway through he started subconsciously trying to get a knee up and a leg between his body and malik, started curling around his ribs, his fingers tight in malik’s robes.

“i know, i know,” malik soothes, having the sense of mind to bite his tongue for sounding so soft, “we’re done. you’re alright.”

he tosses the needle away from them for good measure; altair’s glazed eyes watch it like a hawk, the same focused look he uses to track a target.

“are you still with me?” malik says, and those eyes come back to his, glinting where old moonlight is dribbling into the bureau.

“i’m alright.” his voice is low and rough, like it had been straining despite the fact he didn’t make a sound.

“good.” malik readies another rag, this time just water to wipe away the blood. “it would be quite embarrassing if you died of shock now.”

altair snorts, twitches when malik dabs at the wound; he’s sure he’s too tired to do much about it but he’s still gentle. he spares some cool water to press against the sweat shimmering on altair’s face, his neck, very pointedly not looking at altair’s face while his eyes lock on his profile.

he wraps him up, from the bottom of his ribs all the way up to under his arms, and over a shoulder for good measure. altair seems to get more and more used to being touched; he barely twitches when mailk’s fingers dip against his skin to finish his wrap.

“there,” malik says, making to stand, “drink some water. get some rest. i’ll see you in the morning.”

“malik.” altair’s fingers catch his sleeve. when malik turns back to him, his mouth is curved up at one side, his version of a smile ever since he split his lips. “thank you.”

malik scoffs, despite the flutter in his chest. “i’m sure you’ll be back within the week.”

altair’s laugh is a low thing that doesn’t really come out of his mouth. “wake up to a good morning, malik.”

“and you, altair.”

-

hours later, malik looks out into the courtyard and sees altair, curled on his uninjured side, taking up a corner next to the water pipe. he’s asleep, malik can see from his breathing, even if the morning is just new and golden and dragging shadows up the walls. there’s something that malik can feel swelling in his chest when he notes that altair’s back is to him; the amount in just that small of a gesture ignites something long gone out.

-

it is a young novice that wakes them both.

she rattles the gate open, jolting malik awake and making him stride out to take a look. she drops down, and seems startled by altair’s gaze watching her from where he had swung around at the waist to face the intrusion. he doesn’t look groggy - which couldn’t be said for malik, still rubbing his eyes - but malik doesn’t expect that of him.

“the grandmaster is here?” she asks, her voice nervous.

“ _report_ , novice,” malik says, but there’s enough of a smile on his face that she knows she isn’t really in trouble.

malik notices altair doesn’t sleep again until she leaves, watching her scramble back up the wall from his place in the atrium. he watches malik work at his desk for a few moments, checks the metal grating above him, before sinking back down and going back into an easy rest.

he sleeps on and off for most of the morning and into the evening, waking once to drink deeply from the fountain. malik painstakingly cuts the stitching holding the arm of one of his shirts to it’s own shoulder for altair to wear. he puts it next to his boots, which he must have shucked sometime after mailk went to sleep; he thinks, briefly, _i should have done that for him_ , seeing him in his mind's eye wincing at every ineffectual tug on the laces, but it passes well enough.

he takes the time to try and get some of the blood out of altair’s robes, taking notice of all the times it had been sewed back up, tinged pink with wounds forgotten. he stitches it - it’s easier than altair’s skin, because he can lay it flat and push the needle through with one hand, and because he doesn’t have to wrestle with the guilt of hurting it.

lastly, he carefully cleans altair’s hidden blade. it is a personal thing to do, he knows that; saved for the most treasured friends and the closest of lovers. he doesn’t think about that, not too hard, anyways, as he releases the mechanism and the blade shows itself with a whisper of metal. he just knows that if it gets clogged with rust it could cost altair his life.

it doesn’t surprise him that it’s well maintained, but he is intrigued by its simplicity; even his own was filigreed to some degree. he supposes altair has no family crest to carve to it, no idol or motif to call his own. malik washes the blood off, and rubs oil into the metal until it retracts with barely a sound.

altair wakes fully when the sun starts to go down, sitting up and leaning his back against the wall he’d faced while he slept. malik brings him dates and a cup of tea and honey, both of which he gratefully accepts, alongside the promise of a real meal.

“how are you feeling?” malik takes a sip of his tea.

“better.”

“good,” malik says. he sets his cup down by his knee. “we should change your bandage after you eat.”

altair nods, tips his head to regard malik from a slightly different angle, it seems. there’s a bit of confusion masked in altair’s face. malik wonders for a moment when the last time he was cared for was; if he’d ever imagined it was him doing the caring. probably not, given they were at each other’s throats not long ago. how easy it was to fall back into the rhythm they haven’t had for years on end.

it’s not strange to pull out the cookpot and double what he usually makes; spiced rice and yoghurt with lemon zest, with bread he bought the day before. they eat quietly, but the silence is not heavy; the clink of dishes doesn’t make either of them flinch. altair doesn’t like to be watched eating, so malik doesn’t watch him, focused on his food and not much else. altair watches him, though, periodically lifting his eyes to study him, like he hasn’t had a good look in a very long time.

they push their dishes aside when they’re done, malik goes and fetches more bandage before he sits cross legged beside altair. he pulls the bandage loose, white winding away from sandy skin beneath.

their stitches held well, and malik presses careful fingertips to the edge of the wound, feeling the heat of inflammation under his touch and ignoring the shiver of altair’s muscle under his fingers.

“good news,” malik says, taking his hand back and reaching for the roll of bandage, “i think you’ll live.”

“how unfortunate for you.” there’s a smile on altair’s voice, so malik wrinkles his nose and snorts, waving the bandage at him.

“you think so _poorly_ of me, grandmaster,” he says, beginning to wrap once again, “besides, i do not envy your job, and i would have to do it if you died.”

altair hums, his mouth pinching at one side. it’s an odd look on him, one malik is not used to. he finishes up his wrapping and without thinking gives altair’s shoulder a little squeeze.

“i will get you some willow bark,” he says quickly. altair just nods.

when he comes back, altair is in his boots, shrugging into his robes, and malik stops in the doorway, feeling his eyebrows incline.

“are you leaving?”

“i shouldn’t take up resources.”

“ _altair_ ,” malik says, his tone exasperated, “i would be doing this exact thing for a stupid novice. you’re not taking up anything.”

altair pauses, his hidden blade clasped in one hand. he stares down at it like it might bite him. “and they deserve that.”

“do you think you do not?”

altair is quiet. malik sighs.

“will you stay one more night at least?”

altair’s eyes come up. he swallows, contemplating, before he nods. “alright.”

malik holds out his hand, and altair takes the willow bark from him. he puts it between his teeth and takes a step back. he doesn’t look wobbly, so that’s good.

“rest, altair,” malik says, “even one such as you deserves as much.”

-

malik watches altair toss and turn through the doorway, half interested in relaying the information he got that morning onto the map under his quill. when the moon is high and streaming silver into the courtyard, he sees him sit up, snatch his cowl off the floor, and before he knows it, altair is up and out of the entrance, one handed.

malik sighs, puts down his quill, and makes towards the atrium.

malik finds altair perched up high, just a few buildings down, staring at the streets below. malik is a bit winded by the time he reaches him, but altair pays him no mind.

“what are you doing up here?” if malik’s voice is a little annoyed, he doesn’t blame himself for it. “you could ruin your stitches.”

altair’s eyes swing around, and they’re fiery gold in the night, if only for a second. still, it takes malik aback for a second, before altair’s lips pull in that tiny half smile and he faces forwards again.

“felt like i was suffocating down there,” he says softly, into the night. malik sits next to him on the ledge, twin pairs of legs dangling above nothing but night. they are quiet for a moment.

“what were you looking for? before i got here?”

altair shifts, taking weight off the arm on his injured side. “threats, i suppose.”

“find any?”

“no.”

there’s another silence, but there are words caught in altair’s throat. malik turns to regard what he can see underneath the cowl, a patience he forgot about sitting heavy in his stomach.

“i’m scared, malik.”

the admission lances hot through the center of malik’s chest. he stares openly for a few moments, long enough for altair’s mouth to press into a line and his jaw to flex.

“what ever for?”

“i don’t want to end up like him.”

malik cautiously puts his hand down on top of altair’s. he doesn’t move it away. “ _altair_ -”

“i know it is foolish.” his voice gains just a little bite, the beginnings of a blade. “but i cannot help it.”

“you are a good man, altair.” malik says. altair’s eyes turn to him, even if there is not enough light to see them. he’s more familiar like this, but malik knows from a lifetime ago that sometimes those eyes are the only way to tell how he’s feeling. right now his face is only stone and shadow.

“you wouldn’t have said that not long ago.” his voice is quiet, bordering on contemplative. malik shrugs.

“you have grown, altair. i would have fought tooth and nail against you gaining the title of grandmaster not too long ago, but now, i know the order can rest easy in your hands.”

altair rubs his free hand over his mouth and is quiet. malik scoots a little closer, and altair tips his head, and the moonlight catches the scar across his lips just so, and dips it in silver.

“here, look -” malik reaches his hand up towards the cloudless sky, and the angle of altair’s face follows effortlessly- “that constellation is aquila, yes?”

“you were always better at this sort of thing than i,” altair says, bemused. malik snorts.

“well, at it's point, that’s altair.”

altair goes quiet, looking up with particular curiosity. malik smiles at him, then looks back up.

“on either side, that’s alshain, and tarazed, and their names together mean -”

“the balance,” altair says quietly. for the first time in a very long time, malik wants to take down that cowl and see what’s splayed true in those eyes.

“yes,” malik says, “and you will bring balance, altair. it is quite literally written in the stars.”

there’s a beat before altair turns to face him, bending one leg up on top of the ledge. “you are a good friend, malik.”

malik’s not sure anyone has ever said that to him. “as are you.”

altair snorts softly, disbelieving, but doesn’t protest further than that. “we should go back in.”

they help each other down, and when they get back to the bureau, altair takes his cowl off, and there’s dark circles under his eyes. malik bids him goodnight and retreats to his quarters, but from the noise, altair falls asleep minutes after he’s left.

-

sometimes, malik wakes up curled around his missing arm, pain and fear and loss ripping through him. he knows the symptoms well; he didn’t think he’d ever _have_ them, but this life he lives, it is not a merciful thing. sometimes he wakes and it’s like de serre’s blade is in him again, and he’s watching kadar bleed out on the floor. other times it just _aches_ , horrible and unrelenting until he throws dishes across the room in his frustration.

it’s not _fair_ , and malik presses his forefinger and thumb to the corner of each eye and breathes away the salt. when he rolls up, altair is standing in his doorway, his eyes uncharacteristically wide. it’s almost odd to see him in the daylight all put together; he’s managed to dress himself all the way save for his knife belt and scabbards, and his hidden blade is suspiciously missing.

“morning of light, altair,” malik says, albit dryly, “what wakes you so early?”

“i heard you talking.” altair is very pointedly not looking where malik’s arm abruptly ends. “you sounded in distress.”

a bubble of embarrassment bubbles up in malik’s belly. “that’s none of your concern,” he snaps. altair nods, once, and disappears from view, back towards the atrium. malik drags his hand down his face and sighs. “altair, i’m sorry. come back.”

he makes no noise as he steps back into malik’s quarters. he looks to be chewing the inside of his cheek, his eyes studying the diamond pattern of the shelves housing stacks of scrolls. he’s kept his cowl down, probably more for malik’s benefit than his own. he probably feels as naked without it as malik does now, bare from the waist up so no clothing would chafe his scars while he slept.

“have you seen?” malik says, gesturing to his missing limb. altair shakes his head, slowly letting his gaze slide over to lock with malik’s. malik beckons him closer. “come here, then. best get it out of your system.”

malik swings his legs over the end of his mattress, doing his best to keep his expression open. altair has been flighty, he’s noticed - more than usual, anyways - but he does not expect him to take to his knees next to the bed, eyes level with what remains of his left arm. it strips malik naked in a way he didn’t think he’d ever feel, and it takes a lot not to twist away.

altair reaches for him, changes his mind, takes his hand back. “does it hurt?” his voice is so soft, his shoulders curved in, making him look small in his robes.

“sometimes,” malik says. he sees no sense in lying. altair huffs one ragged breath, and for one horrible, _terrifying_ moment, malik thinks he might cry. it’s the same sound he heard in his room after altair had no family left to his name, and the night time was the only time he didn’t try to put on an impassive face for the rest of the order.

“i’m sorry,” altair says. malik knows he’s not talking about the pain.

“i know.”

“you were calling for kadar.”

“i know.”

very gently, altair leans his forehead to malik’s ravaged shoulder. it is not electric or fire, it is just weight and altair’s smell; desert and the faint tang of iron. “you shouldn’t have had to endure me for so long. there are things you should not have lost.”

“i cannot argue with you.”

altair tenses, makes to back away.

“we have _all_ lost things, altair,” malik continues, “and i cannot blame you for the mistakes that you have made, because i know you won’t make them again.”

altair is quiet. malik cannot study his face at this angle, so just turns his head the other way and bites the inside of his cheek. “when you look at me, what colour am i?”

the answer is immediate. “blue.” 

“and how long have i been that way?”

“since i met you.”

“right. so you know i must not blame you.”

altair sits back, seems to miss the contact and puts a four-fingered hand on malik’s knee, just the backs of his knuckles, resting. “i can’t do this alone. i need you at my side.”

“and i will be there.” for once, malik isn’t flustered by the emotion in his voice. there’s that little twitch in altair’s mouth, just the hint of a smile.

“i am glad to know you,” he says. malik snorts, waves him off, and ignores the heat rising in his cheeks.

“when did you get so _soft_ , grandmaster?”

“oh, not too long ago now.”

“bah.” malik waves him off again, more vigorously. “go. i will be out shortly.”

altair stands, and malik doesn’t miss the wince that crashes across his face. after he goes, rubs some salve into his scars and dresses quickly. he exhausts the last of his willow bark taking a handful for altair to take with him, and makes a note to go out and get more.

by the time he makes it out, altair has fastened his knife belt back around his waist (lower on his hips, malik notices, to make sure his stitches don’t rub against the leather) and had tucked his short blade into it, rather than strapping it to his back. his sword dangles halfway down his calf, and all put together he almost looks like himself again. it’s enough for malik to barely recognize him, if not for his hood draped around his shoulders, and the hidden blade clasped tight in his hand, his eyes boring into it like he might set it ablaze.

“altair?”

his eyes come up. they soften. malik doesn’t think about the implications of that.

“take this,” he says, turning his hand over to place the bark into a willing hand. in a smooth motion, malik plucks the hidden blade from altair’s fingers. there’s barely a beat before altair is holding his forearm out to him, something quietly expectant in his eyes. malik surrounds it in the leather, and altair helps hold it closed while malik expertly navigates the network of buckles and laces that holds the hidden blade to its owner.

“now you be _careful_ out there,” malik says, pulling a knot tight, making the man a killer again, “i do not want to be seeing you again in an hour because you have ripped all your stitches.” 

“i will.”

there’s a short silence in which altair pulls up his cowl.

“are you sure you need to go?” not even malik understands the quality on his voice; vulnerability isn’t something he’s used to. altair nods. there’s another small stretch of quiet.

“come with me?”

malik barks a short laugh, keeping his face twisted up in a smile. “altair, i cannot just leave at a turn of the wind. who would round up all your novices?” malik lets his face fall, not to the point of a frown, just smaller. “i would if i could.”

something relaxes in altair’s shoulders. he inclines his head, before he fishes something out of one of his pouches, exchanging it with the willow bark.

“i nearly forgot,” he says, and produces a feather, brown with old blood. he puts it in malik’s outstretched hand, lays his palm flat over it. carefully, he turns their hands over, and brings malik’s knuckles up for a kiss, and malik can feel the indent of that scar so clearly he swears he grew extra nerves just to feel it.

“until we meet again, dai,” he says, straightening from where he’d stooped.

“with safety wishes, grandmaster.”

altair steps back, mouth ticking up, before he turns and is out of the bureau in a whisper of leather. malik is left there in the courtyard, feather clasped in his hand, looking up. when the affection comes he lets it, feels it fill him up. face to the sun, it comes up in a reckless bubble, and he laughs.

**Author's Note:**

> writing this was like coming home tbh
> 
> incalyscent-writes.tumblr.com


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